


All The Sky's A Canvas

by kataras



Category: Big Bang (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Kinda just unresolved feelings and more angst, M/M, RIP me, this wasn't supposed to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataras/pseuds/kataras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two boys who used to climb the world together (only to embark on vastly different career paths later on)  meet again on a birthday night. Against all odds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Sky's A Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> "The starry sky painted by night, actually under a gas jet. The sky is aquamarine, the water is royal blue, the ground is mauve. The town is blue and purple. The gas is yellow and the reflections are russet gold descending down to green-bronze. On the aquamarine field of the sky the Great Bear is a sparkling green and pink, whose discreet paleness contrasts with the brutal gold of the gas. Two colourful figurines of lovers in the foreground."
> 
> VINCENT VAN GOGH, LETTER 1888

"Hey, Ji." Youngbae calls out, smiling as Jiyong turns to meet his gaze. It’s been two years and their meeting spot hasn’t changed. It is as usual, underneath the same, semi-luminous streetlight, right by the alley and outside the most affordable sushi bar in town. Small wonder why they had gotten along so well - Jiyong prized frugality and pragmatism as much as he did. Hardly anyone else would've agreed to be brought to a typical, middle-class dining area on a day as extraordinary as May the Eighteenth.

"Where's my gift?" Youngbae remarks playfully, the thin line of his lip breaking into a loose, small smile.

"Well, that’s for me to know. And you to discover, later. Or, never.” Jiyong says cheekily, pulling the other into a hug. "Happy Birthday, Bae." He says in earnest, when they finally make it across the street, into the sushi bar.

"S'been a long while since we've had a meal together." Jiyong remarks absently, a little unsure of what he is to do next. It is fitting he thinks, that years of silence and their near telepathic understanding of each other would leave him at a loss of words time to time.

_Was there really anything to say to him anymore? Was there anything that could be said?_

These questions nag at his subconscious sometimes, every time— scratch that, most of the time -- he’s thinking about Youngbae. It’s not like he does it often enough that he has derived a definite answer. Jiyong doesn’t go around missing people. He thinks about them, sometimes. Doesn’t miss. Always has a plan on what to do next, around the people he doesn’t _miss_.

Except, maybe, today, in particular, he struggles to fill in the silence. He’s maybe just a little caught up with how Youngbae’s clean and properly shaven, though the faint trail of stubble still shows down the dimple of his chin. Youngbae’s just so, incredibly ethereally beautiful. Just so assaultingly beautiful to look at Jiyong needs to stop.

“So..” Jiyong initiates the unsuccessful attempt to break the silence - an implicit suggestion in itself that things between them had yet to normalise.

Did he expect things between them to be okay? It was their first meeting in _just_ two years. It shouldn’t be that hard. It’s not as if Jiyong had expected to be able to see Youngbae again, clad plainclothes and living the life of a civilian as if he had all the right and freedom in the world, to do so.

Whoever said those with bloodstained hands had to be chained? Not him.

Not him but _Youngbae_ , cries the small, petulant voice in his head.

"Got any plans for tonight?" Jiyong asks when they take the seat by the windowsill. His eyes had been visibly glazed, and his mind persecuted in thought. Youngbae could tell. And, that Jiyong only belatedly realises, was a stupid question. Jiyong wants to punch himself, literally. It shouldn’t be so easy, this easy to lose his sense of control, especially with Youngbae.

But then, Bae wears this same crescent eyed smile on his face, see. It stupifies Jiyong so much and there he goes again — he almost forgets he's drowning in his own absurdity.

"Plans?" Youngbae quirks an eyebrow, expelling a small laugh after.

"Really, Ji? You're asking this question in the evening with me seating opposite you for dinner at a sushi bar?" He jibes playfully at Jiyong, crescent-eyed. "Guess I do have plans. For you, that is. Speaking of which, do you mind if I ask a small gift from your part?”

"Shut up--" Jiyong retorts, bottom lip jutting out in petulance.

"I--." He hesitates, taking a moment longer than usual to process the other's unusual request.

Jiyong figures that since it is Youngbae's birthday after all any right to his request reject would and had to be temporarily inapplicable to him. "Fine. You're gonna get only one gift from me.”

”You haven't changed at all, Jiyongie." Youngbae mutters under his breath using the pad of his thumb to coax Jiyong's eyelids gently shut. "Close your eyes, Jiyongie." Youngbae whispers, voice hushed as he studies the reaction of the younger.

"What are you doing Bae, I..." Jiyong mumbled, chewing nervously on his inner lip, distressed by his own wilful blindness.

Rising ever so slightly from his seat, Youngbae latches his thumb beneath his chin, tilts it upwards gently before edging in to brush his lips chastely against Jiyong's. He was certain it wouldn't trigger too favourable of a reaction on Jiyong’s part because treading on murky grounds, amorphous distinctions within a relationship was what Jiyong hated most. But no call could hold back Youngbae's desire. He had wished for this for too long. And now, he is satiated, just as he was all those years back, up in their dilapidated and wooden refuge.

The brief brush of Youngbae's lips startles Jiyong. Instinctively, he leans in, the years of misguided frustrations and forlornness pent up within his chest vaporising in a matter of seconds. It is like breathing fire; the _accident_ of their lips, the forbidden intimacy revived and all of Youngbae's defiant impetuousness in the face of it all.

"Shit, Bae." Jiyong whispers, embarrassingly breathless when Youngbae breaks their kiss. It's disdainfully ineffable, the way Youngbae evinces the human feelings he thought he had longed exiled from every inch of his sullied being. Jiyong had done things; gotten himself so immensely tangled in his own web of lies his very survival is contingent upon his ability to embrace Machiavellianism. He has done enough evil to merit himself a throne in hell, but none yet as malicious as having a literal angel of the earth fall in love with him. It is no exaggeration. Countlessly, endlessly and tirelessly had Youngbae time and again, forgiven Jiyong for the broken promises and most recently even his own near encounter with death.

“Just missed you. Missed this." Youngbae mutters, placing his hand over Jiyong's. Youngbae remains silent for a moment longer, his gaze lingering wistfully at Jiyong's bottom lip.

The silence seeps in again and this time it’s the ticking clock and the unspoken countdown that confines them to their own insular apprehensions.

Time is running out. The law enforcement will find Jiyong, and Youngbae is vaguely aware of how Jiyong will slip past his fingers again; like the golden grains of sand Jiyong had pressed into his palms the first time Youngbae was introduced to the seaside. It was a fearless, inconsequential escape then, when they ignored the school bells, climbed out of rusty, ivy-covered school gates, for that mile-and-a-half run to the sea.

Youngbae can only wish with all his heart now, that semblances of such escapes, such togetherness, will still see a possibility.

"Look -- I'm sorry. For bringing this up, Ji. But I--yeah. I still look back sometimes. It all comes back, you know?"

Jiyong sighs, clenching his fist as he locks gaze with the other. "I know, Bae." He lowers his voice, handing the other the long overdue menu. "I know." He wants to tell Youngbae he misses him too, and that it all comes back to him, comes raining in on him like torrential pelts of raindrops at first and then like the brutal torrents of a dessert storm; every attempt to grab hold of the passing present is futile. So instead, Jiyong says, "Order something. You must be famished."

"Right." Youngbae nods absently in response. He blinks, before vaguely realising that they are at a sushi bar and both quite literally by the sushi belt. He wants to laugh, or cry maybe. They both have too many words left unsaid, too many doubts left to reside within the depths of their hollow chests. It's despair, it's whimsical, comical, but its most painful, to see a friendship that had been the most genuine undergo this aching transformation. It could’ve been a beautiful transformation into so much _more_. Youngbae doesn't speak; he sets the menu gently away before reaching for the Tamago sushi.

"Baka." He mutters under his breath in a pointed attempt inject some light humour. Jiyong smiles, unspeaking as he picks at the tamago atop his sushi.

"So you're fluent in Japanese now?" Jiyong quips, lips curling in amusement.

"Better than you, at least." He grins, eating the leftover rice from Jiyong's plate. "You're still that same wasteful brat, aren't you?" Crescent-eyed, Youngbae shakes his head in mock disappointment, a small laugh leaving his lips after.

Jiyong’s features soften at the memory of their happier times together. Youngbae the scavenger. Youngbae the food sweeper. Youngbae his personal cook, who’s spoiled him. Fed him. Loved him. (Still maybe, _loves_ him). They somehow calm him a little. And it's not fair at all, Jiyong thinks, the way Youngbae could somehow rekindle that age old spark in his chest every time he smiled the way he did.

"Yeah." He mutters, looking down at his plate and suddenly hoping that Youngbae hadn't noticed him staring.

"Rich kid." Youngbae says, eyeing the sashimi. "Maybe you could treat me to that." He nods, glancing in the direction of the mega sushi set the waitress held in her tray. Noticing Jiyong's silence, Youngbae turns to meet his eye, only to catch Jiyong avert his gaze to look back at the plate. The discomforting silence once again pervades the fleeting moment of easy ambience they shared.

Jiyong continues to cast his gaze resolutely on his plate, trying not to look long at Youngbae, as if he were the sun. But yet Jiyong saw him, like the sun, even without looking.

He’s hopeless underneath the beam of the sun.

_Give up. Give in. Give him._

“So..” Youngbae tries again, to ignite some conversation.

_You’ve got the sun in your eyes, you’re making this so bloody difficult--_

"Yeah, I'll order it." Jiyong responds after a brief period of silence. He gestures at the waiter, ordering for him to serve the same set.

“Thanks, rich kid.”

"I-- We're -- I..." Jiyong swallows his breath, attempting to conceal his own frustration; he had hardly experienced a speech impediment this severe. He is a bundle of nerves and it's the same man who he's known and endeared himself to.

"Hey, Jiyongie." Youngbae responds, sensing Jiyong’s discomfort and hoping the use of the affectionate nickname would calm his friend a little. "We could always go elsewhere if this makes you feel uncomfortable." Youngbae smiles, his eyes closing into crescents as he reaches over to give Jiyong's hands a small squeeze. "Relax, Ji." Youngbae coaxes gently, the familiarity of the phrase leaving a lingering tenderness in his stomach.

Jiyong nods, eyes shut as he indulges in the feel of Youngbae's hands atop his; it'll be the last time he lets his feelings slip.

Angry at himself, half in love with his best friend, and feeling tremendously sorry, Jiyong turns away, mumbling somewhat incoherently, ”M' sorry, Bae." He says, an unusual urgency underlining his tone. "But I want to bring you somewhere. I need to take you somewhere.”

“And we have to do it, now.”

Youngbae scrunches his brows in confusion, startled by the gravity of Jiyong's words. At this point, he can’t care any less about the sushi. He retracts his hand from Jiyong’s, vaguely suspecting that his reckless intimation earlier to be the culprit of Jiyong's sudden agitation.

"Let's go then." He says, in a steadier voice than he had expected.

"Yes. Let's." Jiyong says breathlessly, wasting no time at all to grab hold of Youngbae's wrist, slapping a wad of cash atop the counter before making the beeline for the exit. It is warm, electric and painfully familiar when Youngbae's wrist is within the heart of his palm. Jiyong wants to tell him that he's never held a wrist so native to his grasp, wants to tell him that he's got this smile that blazes Jiyong's worries away and that he's all that makes Jiyong weightless, light headed and defenceless over and over again. But then, Jiyong belts down the words, shoves them into the space behind his ribcage for safekeeping instead.

Jiyong knows better.

"Cheonggyecheon river," Jiyong says, giving Youngbae's wrist a small squeeze before pulling apart. "Time's running out.”

Youngbae knits his brows in confusion, unsure of what Jiyong is alluding to. Heart sinking to the pit of his gut, Youngbae resorts to movement and the momentum of big steps -- _running_ steps, to rid of all the feelings, his feelings. They are no good. Never good around Jiyong.

And Jiyong pretends he doesn’t recognise the feeling of a steel knife slicing down his throat, from the sirens that will separate them both, again. Running, he thinks, can drain away all his senses. But all he hears is silence and the sound of thunder and the neon lights closing in on them or rather, him, like sharks. He knows, that he needs, he has to, and he must _get_ to the end of the river; for Youngbae. It is dark and he stops where the water ceases to run. There's a highway right above where the river ends, there's a road sign to his left and Jiyong reckons it has to be here. He had situated the assemblage of fuse and wires a few streets ahead. Jiyong glances back to see his friend panting, hands pillared on his kneecaps and gasping for air.

They've both made it, unsurprisingly. Jiyong cracks a loose smile at that. "Your stamina's good." He says jocularly, in spite of his own heavy panting.

"Now, look up, Bae. Look up." He mumbles softly, gently draping his arm over the other's shoulder and pulling him closer in. What sounded like ripples of thunder sliced through the air, breaks the silence of the night and makes Jiyong forget about the endless sirens and his countless search warrants for a while; a myriad of luminous colours spill across the night sky in free form, makes an impressionist canvas out of the murky cityscape, illuminates the night. Jiyong smiles and glances at his starry-eyed companion, who is visibly awe-struck by the ripples of light across the oceanic darkness.

He wills himself to capture this moment; the curves of his smile, crescent eyes, upturned lips and the inverted curve of his brows, stitched up in bewilderment. He is beautiful like that. And Jiyong's hands fits against his like the edge of a river against the golden night sky, organic, breathtaking, the most dazzling blend of mauve on noir. _Real_.

Eyes widening in shock, Youngbae glances at his friend, then the fireworks, completely starstruck and taken aback by the magnitude of his friend’s actual birthday gift. His heart swells at Jiyong's magnum opus. He doesn't help but to recall that day; ages ago when Jiyong had promised to paint him a sky of how he'd felt about him. It was a silly and abstract response really. Youngbae himself had believed Jiyong was merely smart talking himself out of the simple question he had posed - _What does friendship feel like_? Never would he have imagined that Jiyong would've remembered, much less kept his word. Breathless and wonderstruck and left deliberating on what exactly in this world his friend couldn't do, Youngbae laces his fingers against Jiyong, smiling as he wraps an arm around his waist. A friendly hug for a best friend. Youngbae tries his best to muffle the small voice in his head that then goes, _what does love feel like_?

“You're something, Kwon Jiyong." He blinks and says again, with the streaks of glowing fireworks still gracefully eating away his vision. "You're something, Ji.” And Youngbae stops short at that, leaving the words that hang precariously upon his tongue, thankfully, unsaid. He knew they'd spell trouble. All the sentiments. All the need to conceal. To pretend they don’t _exist_.

But the sound of raining sirens.

There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no road he hasn't gone and no river he hasn't survived. The only way out was to be with the currents, and Jiyong had exactly one minute-and-a-half to do so.

It's routine really, the cacophony of safety, the sound of a bullet fired into the air; it's like riding a merry-go-round on repeat. He only ever ends where he begins; search warrants, high street chases, a broken shoulder. Routine and terribly dull. It's nothing he can't handle.

But there's a heaviness in his chest from the weight in his pocket.

Jiyong doesn't have much time anymore.

"Here." He says, looking at Youngbae pensively when he presses _it_ into the heart of his palm.

Despite the magic of the night having dissipated and drowned out by the sound of hurried policing footsteps, Youngbae's eyes still tell a different story. Jiyong feels his lips curl slightly at their ends when he whispers hastily, planting a pair of keys in the heart of his palm, "Above the ground, same place, same combination." Jiyong pauses and draws in a sharp breath before muttering, “And remember; if ever, find me where the river ends."

“Put your hands up and drop your weapons!” A strident voice slices out from nowhere.

They are further interrupted by the blinding headlights of the police vehicle. There’s a moment-long pause before the lights are cast upon them.

Jiyong mounts over the railing, takes the plunge; disappears. Lost to the depths of the urban river, lost to the silence of the night and lost, to the sound of the wailing sirens.

Lost to Youngbae.

Youngbae sighs, the farewell splash of Jiyong’s dive confirming another solitary turn to face his own music. The helicopter searchlight is on him now, and Youngbae stands a lone finger, clutching the keys in his palm as the officers point the nozzles of their pistol in his direction. Youngbae slips the keys discreetly into the pocket of his jeans before raising his hands in surrender. He is silent as the cops close in on him; he wears the insignia of the governing institution on his chest anyway- they'll realise it soon enough.

It is strange but somewhat appropriate, that it's mostly Jiyong that's on his mind. What could he mean by that? The river never really ended unless..... Youngbae thinks he knows now. Perhaps Jiyong had meant for Youngbae not to find him. That if fortune somehow made them cross paths again that would be how they'd meet; the river never really ended. Neither did Jiyong’s penchant for riddles. These will be thoughts reserved for later.

_The keys. The keys. The keys._

Youngbae remembers the treehouse and the lock and the combination and the story of a forgotten, buried past. The night where the promise of a painting would be drawn across the sky was made, and Youngbae fumbles in his mind to find the significance of the keys and the keys and the keys and their _first kiss_ \--

“Don’t move.”

Youngbae recognises the patronising red-blue glares glowing from the roof of the vehicles.

Reality’s messengers are edging closer towards him, armed.

There’s the metre near, unlocking click of the pistol.

They all reel Youngbae back from his escapade, like a tenacious rode, summoning back its stubborn anchor. The firearms glare at him pointedly, like the hawk-eyed gaze of the armoured police officers. Though more like the mistrustful scrutiny of his _colleagues_. 

But all Youngbae really thinks about is, if Hyorin will taste Jiyong on his lips, later.

He contemplates if Seunghyun will be able to tell, the grate of his tongue against Jiyong’s teeth, later.

He wonders, if the night in all its melting darkness, bankrupt of colours, could have been, real.

**Author's Note:**

> All it took was a glance at VVG's "Starry Night Over The Rhone" for the whole idea of a very messy GDYB ('two colourful figurines of lovers in the foreground') to come raining down on me. I'm not sure if I've done Van Gogh any justice. But I hope that at the very least, you'll have enjoyed reading it anyway.


End file.
